


3. Delirium

by titC



Series: Whumptober 2019 [3]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Sick Matt Murdock, whumptober2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-10-14 11:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20600180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Matt is late to work, and Foggy is worried.





	3. Delirium

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Whumptober](https://whumptober2019.tumblr.com/) for organizing it and [PixelByPixel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixelByPixel) for the beta!

Foggy had learned to live with it, the feeling of dread that today would be the day Matt would get himself killed.

So they’d gotten into little habits, rituals to reassure him: Matt would tell him when he went out, and he’d leave a message when he was back home. Foggy knew him well enough that, from his voice alone, he could tell how banged up he was. But Matt hadn’t been late to work in two weeks, not even once.

Lateness would have been worrying before they’d instituted the Protocol. But they had, and so it was okay; it was just Matt recuperating from a rough night. Well, ‘just…’ It was _just_ their normal now. And Matt had been doing good lately, coming in to work with a spring in his step instead of the occasional limp. So Foggy tried to be happy for him and worry less, he really did.

However, what was _not_ normal was Matt being late although he’d been home last night, and then not answering his phone when Foggy called and called again. At 11am, he’d had enough; it had gone from unusual to concerning to _What in God’s name have you done to yourself this time, Matty?_ So Foggy wrapped his scarf around his neck, left a note on Karen’s desk for when she got back from the precinct, and made his way to Matt’s apartment. The sidewalk was slippery, but Foggy had lived through many New York winters (not that he was _old_, of course); he could navigate the mixture of snow, slush, salt, and occasional hidden ice patch without falling on his ass. Or his face, either.

Matt’s building was still there, so there was that: no fire, no explosion, no random monster from outer space come to eat it or anything (hey, you could never know, right?). So, step one: check. Foggy pushed the front door open and climbed the stairs until he reached Matt’s apartment, and first listened. No strange noise from inside or at least no fighting, which was a good start. Probably. He tried calling again and he heard Matt’s phone saying, _Foggy, Foggy, Foggy_. Whether that was a reassuring thing or not was still undetermined; so Foggy knocked, said “I’m coming in, Matty!” and used his spare key to get in the apartment.

Everything looked normal: no pool of blood, no broken coffee table, no half-dead pajama-clad man in black on the floor. “Matt? Matt, buddy, are you okay?”

His winter shoes were near the door, his cane was folded on the low bench, his coat was there, too; his messenger bag was on a chair near the kitchen and a red scarf that Foggy had never seen before was hanging from a peg. “Looks like you’ve hit the shops,” Foggy said to himself. He touched it and, of course, it was super soft. Matt had indulged himself for once; good for him.

But where was he?

Not on the couch, which was probably also a good sign; there were only the usual throw and pillows there. One empty bottle of wine sat on the kitchen counter, it looked expensive; two used glasses of wine in the sink. Okay, that was less normal, Matt was more of a beer guy; but… company? Foggy looked at the closed bedroom door. Had he finally brought someone home? Were he and the mysterious girlfriend waiting for Foggy to leave? Shit.

“Matt, buddy, I’m sorry if I’m intruding, but can you just confirm you’re alive? I swear I’ll get out of your hair after that.”

But there was still no answer, and Foggy braced himself and hoped he wouldn't find Matt and his paramour doing… whatever it was they could be doing that would mean they hadn’t heard him. So Foggy knocked, took a deep breath, and slid the door open. There wasn’t any girlfriend.

“Matt? Oh, buddy, you look like shit!”

And he did: his face was blotchy and he had giant purple bags under his eyes, he was shivering under way too many blankets, and his face was shiny with sweat. There was a thermometer on the bedside table along with a glass of water and an empty bottle of ibuprofen. Matt didn’t look aware of anything around him; his eyes were at half-mast and from what Foggy could see of them they were dull with fever. He picked up the thermometer and turned it on; maybe it had recorded the last temperature. “102F,” it said.

“Okay, that’s not good. Buddy, I’m calling a doctor.”

“’lektra?”

“What? Matt, you’re awake?”

Not quite, apparently. Matt groaned and moved, then a hand slid out from under the covers. “Elektra?” His voice was scratchy and rough.

She was dead, but Foggy didn’t say that. He took Matt’s hand, which was clammy and floppy in Foggy’s grip. “Only Fogs here, I’m afraid.”

“She’s here,” he managed before a coughing fit that must have hurt like hell.

“Aw, Matty. You stay here, okay?”

Foggy left the bedroom for the kitchen, took his coat and shoes off, and started going through Matt’s cupboards; but there was no lemon and no tea and no honey anywhere. He boiled some water and filled a bowl, grabbed a towel from the bathroom, and set it all on the bedside table.

“Okay, are you still awake?”

“Don’t leave,” Matt said in a tiny voice.

“I’m not leaving, I’m right here.” Foggy pushed back some of Matt’s clumped hair and felt for his forehead. Too warm, of course.

“’lektra, please, stay.”

…okay. Not creepy at all, right? “You’re seeing ghosts, I think. Well, _seeing_.” Matt didn’t react. “Just good old Foggy here, helping you sit up. Shit, you're all dead weight, you know that? Okay. Now, you just bend – no, I didn’t say _fall_, I said _bend_ over the bowl, put the towel over your head, and breathe it in. The steam will make you feel better, promise.”

Matt dutifully bent over the bowl between his knees, and Foggy held him by the shoulders until he was pretty sure Matt would stay mostly upright for the next few minutes.

He needed to go to the nearest CVS and get some medicine to bring the fever down, and also buy some honey and lemon. And broth, definitely broth. Or chicken soup. Maybe he could call his mom; she’d jump at the chance to – he should call _Matt’s_ mom. He still wasn’t used to the idea Matt had found her. She was a _nun_, and that was the most Matt Murdock thing possible. Okay, so he needed to find St. Agnes’ number, and ask for… well, he couldn’t directly ask for Matt’s mom, of course. Did the other nuns know about Matt? Or rather, what did they know? A random guy asking for one particular nun, wouldn’t that raise questions? Or maybe not, shit, what did he know about nuns anyway? Matt was the expert, not Foggy.

“Want me to call Maggie?”

“She left,” Matt said. His voice was muffled under the towel.

“Oh, your mom was here before?”

“She left me.”

Oh boy. Foggy was not going into that right now, nope. “Okay, you done with the steam?” He put the bowl on the floor and tried to push Matt down on the bed, but Matty didn’t want to lie down.

“No, no, I can’t stay,” he said.

“You can’t stay?”

“She’s waiting for me, she’s out there, I have to… let me go, let me go, let me go let me go let me – ”

Foggy caught Matt’s flailing wrists, but Matt managed to escape his grip and he’d have fallen from the bed if Foggy hadn’t caught him under the armpits.

“Elektra’s waiting for me,” Matt mumbled in Foggy’s shoulder.

“No, she’s not. You, on the other hand, are alive, and you’re going to stay that way, okay? Thought you’d gotten that flu shot; what happened?”

“Different strain,” came a voice behind him. He hadn’t heard the door open, not a step. It was a ghost, a hallucination. Right?

Foggy very pointedly didn’t turn his head. “Nope, not talking to dead people.”

“I’m not dead, Franklin. I just went to the pharmacy to buy some medicine. How is he?”

“Not dead.” No thanks to the ghost that wasn’t right behind him.

“Neither am I.”

Fine, he should look. Or maybe just take his own temperature? No, he’d look first. He looked over his shoulder and there she was, still gorgeous, still terrifying. But she didn’t have the cold eyes Foggy remembered, not anymore. “You,” he said. She shrugged and took a step forward.

“Elektra?”

“I’m here, Matthew.” She dismissed Foggy and knelt down, disentangling Matt from Foggy and heaving him up onto the bed. “You were supposed to tell your friend.”

Tell him what? Foggy looked at them, at the way she was gently wiping his face with the towel. How long had she been back? How long had Matt _known_ she was back? He’d have to get that story, once Matt was recovered and not delirious with fever.

“Stay?”

“Yes, Matthew, I’m staying.”

And she did, this time.


End file.
